“Systolic is dropping. Is dopamine on board?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“We’re losing him. BP is crashing and he’s in V-fib. Push epi and charge the paddles. Let’s go!”
Except I couldn’t. My limbs were heavy and my body was sluggish. It felt like I was running through water or sludge or sand.
“I think losing a patient is inevitable.”
“I have lost patients,” I told Nash, grateful I was out of the trauma room. That was a horrible shift. A horrible death. “He didn’t make it. He was so young.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier to manage.”
“It wasn’t Roman’s fault either.”
I held in my sob and clung to him. I loved Nash. He was everything perfect a first love should be. A best friend. A confidant. Gentle. Sweet.
“You need to tell him that,” I whispered.
He kissed my hair. “You need to tell him that for me. And make sure he believes it.”
“I’ve tried. I’ll keep trying.”
“It’s okay to love him.”
“Charge to two hundred. Clear!”
I jolt awake, covered in sweat as my dream fractures into pieces and dissolves around me. All I’m left with is that feeling.That awful, icky, prickly feeling you get after a bad dream. Except… Nash. I was with Nash on the beach. It was the week after we got our acceptance letters to college. We were at his grandparents’ Martha’s Vineyard home, and not even three months later, he was gone.
I went to BC without him. Skylar started the following year, and we were in the same program. But I didn’t have Nash and that first year was the hardest and worst of my life.
But there’s more. Something else I can’t quite remember from the dream but is what’s making my insides squirm and feel all wrong.
I roll over and face Roman, who is sound asleep on his side, facing me, his eyelashes fluttering as if he’s dreaming. I hope whatever he’s dreaming about is better than whatever I was just dreaming.
Last night was incredible. He’s incredible. But that’s nothing new. It’s everything else that he’s doing. Everything else that I’m afraid to analyze and think about and obsess over and feel. Because where will that lead me? Roman isn’t the type of man who dates. He’s never had a girlfriend. Not one that I can remember.
Yes, he’s called me his. Yes, he’s hinted that this runs deeper, but is that because it’s me and it’s us? I release a breath. I could ask him. Ishouldask him. But when he answers, I’ll have to be ready for that answer either way. It’s a slippery slope I’m toying with. An edge I can’t seem to get my bearings on.
Then it hits me. Why I’ve been holding myself back when everything else inside me is telling me to run blindly toward him and never look back. I couldn’t figure it out. But now it makes so much sense.
I’ve loved and lost more than once. They were obviously different, and yes, those losses hit differently too. Losing Nash was devastating. I clung to Roman because it felt like holdingonto Nash. We had a shared grief and that grief was consuming. Our friendship became a lifeline for both of us. I didn’t date anyone until Adam. I fooled around in between and of course, tried to kiss my ex-boyfriend’s older brother.
But the only two men I ever gave my heart to broke it one way or another. I’ve had to grieve them both. Live through the loss. So my fear is real. It’s valid. It’s a byproduct of deep, penetrating scars.
Even if I want to leap blindly at Roman, those scars are what’s holding me back. Not him. Not necessarily. But I also don’t want to run from this. I want to see where I end up. Where we could end up. Even if it’s just us walking out of here as best friends and nothing more.
He looks so peaceful. So perfect. My heart gives a thump.
Something is making me antsy, though. The part of my dream I can’t quite remember. It pulls me out of bed. I use the bathroom and pace around a little in there, but there’s no way I’m falling back to sleep now. Quietly, I pad back into the bedroom. Roman stirs, rolling onto his back, and I freeze.
He mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep that makes me smile, but he’s still out. I snatch my phone from my nightstand and head outside onto the terrace, the warm ocean breeze kicking at my face and whipping my hair behind me.
I’m twenty-seven now.
I’m young and yet I don’t feel that way. I’ve experienced so much. Seen so much. Both in life and in the ER. I’ve had sleepless nights at the hand of the ER before. It’s an uncomfortable anxiety that stirs the pit of your stomach and rattles your mind. Did I miss something? Did I kill anyone? Will that patient be okay? Will their families?